Choking
by Parodia the Silent
Summary: When a man wakes up and finds himself in the body of Sasuke Uchiha, his world ends. He knows the story— knows just how much he'll suffer— and he doesn't like it. He hates it. But more than anything, he's terrified.
1. Breathe

**A break from my usual "OC reborn as an OC".**

 **Disclaimer:** Naruto is the intellectual property of Masashi Kishimoto. I guess.

* * *

 _Breathe_

The first time he opens his eyes and _truly_ sees is two years after his birth.

He's balanced on the hip of a woman he knows instinctively to be his mother (not _his_ mother who has been forgotten by all but himself) and pulls emptily at her silky black hair.

She smiles down at him as she gently removes his hand from her hair. He doesn't particularly mind and is more focused on how familiar she seems. Eventually, however, his train of thought is interrupted when she boops him on the nose.

(Boop is an adorable word that makes him feel nostalgic and wistful at the same time.)

He smiles and laughter bubbles from his mouth, unbidden as his mother whispers to him words he only hears peripherally. The incessant feeling of recognition still squirms uneasily through his head, but he ignores it in favor of stroking his mother's hair. It's soft. Comforting.

(It's unfamiliar but not unpleasant.)

His mother's smile grows as she continues to walk, all the while entertaining him with small comments on the way to wherever it is they're going. He has an inkling of a feeling that this isn't the way things should be but he ignores it and keeps his eyes trained on his mother's breathtaking smile.

She eventually stops her chattering but shows an equal amount of affection without speaking and he relaxes.

For a moment, he wants to understand that but the thought is washed away in a torrent of breathless love and joy.

As focused as he is on his mother and her affectionate attention, he is also distinctly aware of the moment they enter a decidedly different district of town. They pass through gates (two men standing guard) and walk among many homes. They all share a similar style but he is only aware of that peripherally.

As focused as he is on his mother's affectionate and distracting doting, he notices that each and every person within shares very similar features. The thought crosses his mind that this 'compound' must belong to a really large family. That makes perfect sense so his wariness is ignored.

When he and his mother enter the largest home, they are given a sideways greeting by a stern-faced man. Though, while the man's face is stern and creased by stress, the two-year-old can see a softness (locked away and deeply hidden) in those pitch black eyes. Recognition flits through his mind once again but it's irrelevant.

Another younger male comes from deeper inside the house and his love is written clearly on his face compared to the father. If the boy's face wasn't marred by two heavy creases beneath his eyes, then the toddler would've lived the smallest bit longer in ignorance.

As it is, with his attention drawn away from his mother ( _She'll die_ ) and towards the face of his brother ( _He'll kill them_ ) he's panicking.

When his father turns his back and the wretched _uchiwa_ is exposed, he's on the verge of tears.

The first time he opens his eyes—

(The first time wakes up—)

—and _truly_ sees—

(—and _truly_ remembers—)

—is two years after his (re)birth.

Then all is nothing and the world goes black.


	2. Temper

**I suppose I have to tag this as 'OC' if it's an OC reincarnated as a canon character, yeah? I mean, that makes a degree of sense.**

 **Disclaimer:** Naruto isn't owned by me. Even if I had the money, I wouldn't buy it.

* * *

 _Temper_

He tries his very best to hide beneath the guise of a child and he struggles because the world is a distorted mess and nothing is making sense anymore.

(The feeling is a familiar one and he hates it.)

It's been hours or days or _weeks_ since that first fateful awakening and he can't help feeling _suffocated_. Like all eyes are always on him and he _knows_ he's going to slip up. The Uchiha— he _can't_ think of them as his family— are almost disturbingly attentive. It is _Itachi's_ attention that disturbs him the most but he knows better to show that and simply stares up at him with curious eyes when approached by the elder Uchiha.

He's resigned himself to mostly staying silent, answering questions only when absolutely necessary because one day he'll let something slip otherwise. He almost regrets the lengths he went through to learn other languages aside from English because if he hadn't, he could at least use his lack of knowledge in Japanese as an excuse not to speak.

He mourns. For himself, for the people he once knew, and for the people who will die at the hands of _his_ brother.

His solemn expression would be more at home in the Hyūga clan's compound.

It takes too long before he truly notices the half-concerned gazes that Uchiha Fugaku throws his way on occasion, whenever he says something too intelligent, too deliberate. When Sasuke— _dear God, the name itself almost brings him to tears_ — finally does notice, he sees a modicum of fear hidden within those eyes as well. Despite everything, Fugaku is far easier to read than he believes.

It's clear that he doesn't want another Itachi— another son that's too smart and too talented for his own good. Dangerous.

(The truth is so much worse, isn't it?)

Despite himself, he doesn't wish to cause undue pain to Fugaku. Regardless of whether or not the Uchiha head had truly wished the best for his clan, he didn't deserve to be unloved by his own sons and looked at with such cold eyes.

The flesh of Uchiha Sasuke feels as if it's choking the life out of him— strangling his mind and keeping him so heavily chained— but it's inconsequential. Despite his fear and his sorrow, he will wear a thousand masks as he has done in the past. He will become a living matryoshka and a snake infinitely shedding skins.

He would not trouble the hearts of the Uchiha with the weight of his own despair.

(It is a selfish desire that drives him to don these masks. They are _everything_.)

It takes him far too long to come to this conclusion— he is four years old. He smiles and laughs and begs for attention the same as any child would. He falls into this perfectly suited role easily and the Uchiha's home becomes lighter as he does. He revels in the doting of Uchiha Mikoto and makes a point of not pestering Itachi or Fugaku any more than necessary.

(But this is all a facade. He can't afford to forget that.)

* * *

 **This will probably be the last time I post such a short chapter. Well, unless I decide that five-hundred-word chapters are sufficient but... I don't really like that. These first two chapters weren't much story-wise. More along the lines of intro stuff. This should be it though; the story _should_ start next chapter. I hope.**

 **Also, I've finally managed to hop back onto Re-Re-Re. It'll take probably the rest of this month, but I will have another chapter out soon enough.**

 **See ya~**


	3. Revere

**To make up for three(?) months of inactivity, I did this as fast as I could manage.**

 **Disclaimer:** Hey! Vsauce Michael here. I don't own Naruto... or do I? (I don't)

* * *

 _Revere_

Itachi watches silently as his brother runs back and forth between two trees in the yard behind their home.

He cannot say he is _impressed_ at the speed with which his brother moves— for _that_ would imply a sort of novelty to the speed that just isn't there— but he finds the speed _remarkable_ for a child of Sasuke's age. In addition to this is the fluidity of movement. Itachi watches as his brother jogs, not with the standard flailing sprint of any other four year old, but with balanced and lengthy strides that maximize distance covered while maintaining the stamina that would be wasted with shorter, quicker steps.

It's obvious that Sasuke knows better than to go at it with everything he has; Itachi can see it in the way he moves.

Itachi takes a step back and opens the amoda before sliding it closed once more, making sure the sound captures Sasuke's attention.

Sasuke turns his head only momentarily and before he can make even a sound of acknowledgment, his right foot catches the heel of his left and his face meets the dirt.

An amused chuff of laughter escapes Itachi but his expression smoothes over quickly as he makes his way to his fallen brother.

Sasuke, he thinks, is too good for this world. Too pure, too forgiving, _too full of life._ Itachi knows that one day the world will swallow that light whole. That the very family he was born to may well be the first step in the process.

(But this is his precious otouto. _He_ is the reason Itachi fights. For a world where that kindness can go unpunished. Where children won't be robbed of their _souls_ before they lose their lives.)

Still, Itachi cherishes the love in Sasuke's eyes as he helps his brother to his feet. He bears a smile as Sasuke tells him what he's missed while on his last mission.

Half-heartedly, Itachi questions Sasuke about how hard he's pushing himself, partly out of curiosity and partly because he _worries_.

(His father has placed burdens upon his own shoulder's and he will not allow the same to happen to Sasuke.)

"Shisui-san said if I trained hard enough I might be faster than him one day!"

That brings a smile— more genuine than those before it— to Itachi's face, small though it is, and he brings two fingers up to tap his brother's forehead.

"I'm sure you'll surpass him, otouto."

The grin that Sasuke gives him is comparable to Shisui's already and he watches as his little brother sets back to running, this time a contentedness in the boy's expression.

(Already he's forgotten the prowess and the disturbing amount of thought he'd seen his brother put into this simple training.)

Itachi steps inside their house, his heart lighter than it had been.

* * *

 **Ooh~ Two lines of dialogue!**

 **Short chapters are the thing I guess.**

 **Oh! Sometime in the future, there will be a chapter titled "Curse". Beware of it; this is your only warning.**


	4. Exalt

**Hello again~**

 **Disclaimer:** I don't own Naruto. Done. (Success?)

* * *

 _Exalt_

Mikoto takes a sip of tea and almost chokes on it in the next moment when she feels two arms fall over her shoulders. It is only because of this fact— and the fact she recognizes those tiny, _tiny_ limbs— that she keeps from immediately rounding on her would-be attacker, Sharingan blazing after years of underuse.

It is night— deep and dark and _deeper_ into the night than is healthy— and she is sipping tea because she cannot sleep. Mikoto feels the weight of her youngest son acutely as he leans into her, can feel his heartbeat steadily slowing until it matches the steady pace of her own. She lets Sasuke nuzzle into the crook of her neck for as long as is needed.

But she doesn't move. Not yet.

She waits until the tightness of muscles fades. She waits until she can no longer feel the minuscule tremors that occasionally wrack his body. When that stops, Mikoto waits longer. A breath, and then a breath longer and _still_ she does not speak.

In these four years she has been raising Sasuke, she has learned _so much_.

Sasuke, she has learned, takes to the quiet far better than most children his age. Whenever he is in a particular mood, he finds her. He doesn't ask for help or speak about what bothers him. He waits and eventually is better for it.

He revels in her presence simply because Mikoto is his mother and that sort of unconditional love is simply beautiful.

(She does not want to say she is relieved that he doesn't require consoling because a part of her _yearns_ to know his heart.)

But this time is different. In the four years she's raised her baby boy, he has rarely sought physical comfort. He has _never_ come to her trembling, has never clung to her so desperately.

So Mikoto waits until he stills completely before she reaches around and drags him into her lap. He sits in silence only momentarily but he answers her question before she can ask it.

"I had a nightmare, okaa-san."

Mikoto hums in lieu of responding and runs her right hand through Sasuke's hair. She waits because she knows there is a bit more to it than that.

"Everyone was dead, okaa-san."

The statement is delivered with the same matter-of-fact tone as the first but Mikoto does not stop running her fingers through his hair. Somehow— _somehow_ — she gleans that he does not mean _everybody_ but rather the clan.

 _Their_ clan. Their _family_.

She does not ask him what brought this dream about because she can tell he is confused and such questions only serve to muddle the waters further. She only continues to run her slender fingers through his hair and he lets her, his fingers running through her own inky black tresses.

She offers him the last of her tea, cold though it is, and he accepts it. He drinks it quickly and soon they are absorbed in each other once again.

(She knows that the youngest of her sons won't bother Itachi or Fugaku about this. And she also knows that— though they _do_ care— they will not ask. Because Sasuke will never ask for more than he is given and they will never give what is not requested. Even this momentary _wasei-eigo_ is more than her precious son would ask of anyone.)

They remain this way until the sun rises and when it does Mikoto finds that she is not particularly excited to face this day. She looks down at Sasuke finds that he looks exceptionally tired— and she certainly feels the same way— and lifts him easily.

It is only when Mikoto carries Sasuke to his bed and lays him down that she realizes they are alone in their home, Itachi on another mission and Fugaku simply busy— _always_ busy but it is a thing to which she is accustomed.

Later, she will say that she had fallen to her exhaustion at that moment but the truth of the instant is that she sees her son looking lonelier is his sleep than she has ever seen him and—

(She had spent all night holding her son so she feels she is forgiven for desiring some rest.)

— she simply falls into bed next to him. She takes him into her arms easily and she feels less... idle.

The silence lasts only another second before Sasuke speaks up, noting a desire to grow his hair as her hair is. She pulls him closer in this brief second and a smile blooms slowly on her lips.

"Of course, Sasu-chan."

When Fugaku returns later that day, the sun moving just past noon, his wife and second son have only just awoken and he watches as they drag their feet lazily across the tatami mats.

* * *

 ** _wasei-eigo_ is a term that translates to something along the lines of skinship, coined to describe the closeness between mother and child.**


	5. Absolve

**Hallo~**

 **It is I. Again.**

 **Disclaimer** **:** _I don't own it~ (Naruto) I don't own it~ (Naruto)_

* * *

 _Absolve_

Teaching Sasuke, Fugaku thinks, is an experience.

That is not to say that Sasuke is entirely incapable or struggles any more than Fugaku has expected him to. Rather, Sasuke trains with a distinct lack of enthusiasm that Fugaku does not find vexing so much as it is inconvenient.

Technically, that is only a vague and inaccurate summation of how Sasuke goes about training. The boy is plenty enthusiastic but he is also extraordinarily and abnormally wary. So much so that when Fugaku gives instruction, Sasuke will follow them and make no move to take the initiative afterward.

(This makes it so Fugaku does not actually need to tell the boy to _stop_ but it also means he must constantly give direction.)

They are sitting, legs crossed in a basic Lotus in preparation for what is to be the first of many meditation sessions. Fugaku's spine is ramrod straight and a glance towards Sasuke has his son doing the same.

Chakra is a volatile thing to handle as a rule so Fugaku waits until his youngest son has loosened enough before he begins instructing him. To close his eyes and to reach out for his chakra.

(Out, not _in_ , because ironically— while chakra is as much a part of one's body as anything else— it is known to feel _alien_ upon discovery.)

It is seven minutes before Sasuke opens his eyes and speaks.

"I found it, otou-san."

The words are laced with _something_ but enough of it that Fugaku knows his son is waiting. So he sets Sasuke to practicing further. Practicing until he can find his chakra within an instant. Sasuke nods and closes his eyes and sets back to work, Fugaku watching him all the while.

The sun is brushing the horizon by the time Fugaku decides that his son has reached an acceptable level, almost seven hours spent giving instruction and half-heard advice to his son. It is slow and even for a Genin, it would be considered so, but Sasuke is not a Genin— not even in the Academy— so it is acceptable.

( _More_ than acceptable but the boy cannot be told that, lest he be given a reason to slack off.)

They part with few words beyond the customary well-wishes from Sasuke which Fugaku answers with an acknowledging nod.

It is another two weeks of this training— a week _too long_ but only because Fugaku is testing and pushing at Sasuke all the while— before Fugaku decides it is enough.

The pair sit before the pond within the Uchiha compound, beneath the early morning sun. There is a certain incredulity that Fugaku observes in his son's eyes even as the boy takes steps to relax himself. Fugaku turns away his gaze and looks over the pond before he speaks.

"Today, you will begin learning our clan's Gōkakyū no Jutsu."

In the moment after the words leave Fugaku's mouth, he hears a sharp intake of breath from Sasuke. He ignores it— mindful of its possible meaning, all the while— before he begins.

Fire is molded in the stomach. Air is molded within your surroundings. Lightning, on the hands, leaping between fingers. Earth uses any connection to the ground; the palms of your hands and the soles of your feet. Water draws from the world.

The knowledge is so basic that Fugaku hardly spends any time on it. It is something that is understood easier with experience rather than lectures and as it is so he begins to teach Sasuke the hand seals for the jutsu.

Sasuke runs through the seals— slowly, sloppily, clumsily— but does not stop until he has completed the sequence once. Fugaku watches as his youngest son nods to himself before trying it again.

Sasuke will be five within the next month and enter the Academy in the coming spring. By Fugaku's prediction, Sasuke will not master the technique until his second year in the academy.

But for now, he teaches his son and he waits. Waits and plans as thing come together and fall apart simultaneously. Dangerously and suddenly.

(But not now. For now, he teaches his son.)

* * *

 **I really don't like this chapter.**


	6. Scatter

**The Academy starts.**

 **Disclaimer:** I do not own the source material of which this fan work is based. (a.k.a. Naruto)

* * *

 _Scatter_

Sasuke looks about the village with ill-concealed curiosity as he makes his way to the Academy with his brother and mother on either side of him. Truthfully, the village itself is hardly anything to gawk at but as his anxiety grows he finds more and more things to distract himself with as they walk.

(The Academy is where everything will begin. Surely, that is cause for stress.)

He tightens his grip on his mother's hand— an entirely instinctual action that shocks him and he almost pulls his hand away but only _barely_ stops himself— when the Academy comes into view. Immediately, he feels her eyes on him and he meets her gaze. Her left eyebrow is raised imperiously, her eyes alight with a silent amusement and her lips upturned ever so slightly at the corners, but Sasuke can see the question without her saying a word.

Instead of answering, he turns away and only just manages to keep himself from pouting at her, his face screwing up from the difficulty of it. His mother doesn't offer him any words of encouragement and she laughs at him— he's certain the look on his face must be truly _hilarious_ — but she squeezes his hand back all the same.

The exchange, quick and subtle though it was, is noticed by Itachi and the genius offers platitudes he obviously does not believe himself, even as they leave his mouth. Still, Sasuke accepts them with a smile, regardless of the futility of the words because the intent is still there and _that_ provides some measure of comfort.

(His love for Mikoto— lethargic and half-formed as it is— has slowly grown and attached itself to Itachi and despite everything, _he simply cannot help himself._ )

They step past the gates of the Academy and Sasuke clenches his teeth to keep from gasping at the size of the crowd. While he is a far cry from truly agoraphobic, the thought of being trapped within a crowd of that size stirs old anxiety in his chest and his left hand visibly twitches. Long ago, when his nerves got the best of him, he would've clasped his hands together in prayer as a homage to his mother (his oldest, _truest_ mother) but now, with his hair missing his shoulders by the narrowest of margins, he finds himself having to keep from idly twirling strands of it around a finger during bouts of timidity.

Rather than attempt to navigate the crowd, Sasuke is promptly hefted onto Itachi's shoulders, the new vantage point allowing for him to see over a good portion of the crowd. More than that, he finds his gaze drawn to the front of the gathered masses.

At the head of it stands Sarutobi Hiruzen and the man looks like anything but a tired old man as he speaks out to the crowd. The Sandaime Hokage voice carries like a war horn and Sasuke can feel the words flowing through him, powerful and bracing. It is only because _he knows_ , that the Hokage's orations have no hold on him and he is made starkly aware that _this_ is how people are swayed to the cause— swayed to give their children to an industry of death and subterfuge.

(Sarutobi Hiruzen preaches the Will of Fire, but he is merely the flame's shadow.)

There is a weight that settles into Sasuke's skull— sluggish and dark— as he watches the Hokage speak. It is enough to shock him and he takes a deep, steadying breath. The feeling recedes— slowly, ever so slowly— and he exhales silently, his attention drawn back to the Hokage.

Sasuke watches as the man speaks, awe displayed perfectly on his face as he mimics the childish wonder that would be expected when seeing the leader of their village. He watches and when the crowd finally disperses at the end and he is let down from Itachi's shoulders. His mother hands him his lunch, accompanied by a reassuring smile that he returns in equal measure before waving goodbye to the two of them as he goes to see which class he is to be placed in.

(I do not hate him, I am not angry. I do not hate, I am _not angry_. I do not _hate, I do not I do not IdonotIdonot—_ )

* * *

 **Next chapter is an** **interlude.**


	7. Exist

**Alright, so that interlude might have to come later.**

 **Disclaimer:** I don't own Naruto.

* * *

 _Exist_

Sasuke sits silently as he watches Iruka lecture about some of Konoha's history.

He cannot truly bring himself to truly pay attention to the words leaving the man's mouth and only picks up the most salient details— the ones most likely to appear on exams. He knows— better than any other student in the room, most likely— that even knowing the _history_ of a place has its uses.

Lately, Sasuke has found that in the Academy— separated from the stimulating presence of his family— he feels empty. He feels desperate and abnormally empty as if a pit is growing within him, yearning. But there is nothing. So even as this weight within him expands, searching and hungering, it devours him. Eats him from the inside and he can only watch placidly as the day passes him by.

Truly, there is nothing he enjoys less than his time at the Academy.

(Every moment stings like sand blown against a knee that's been scraped raw, blood bubbling out like tar.)

If this world was _right_ , nobody would look upon this mask of his— _understand_ what it is— and look _pleased_. Nobody would look at him and think, _"Ah, as expected of the Uchiha_ _"_. Nobody could watch, day in and day out, for days and weeks and _months_ and then not say a word.

Every day, he is reminded of this world's horrid status quo and every day the same things are happening over and over, _repetit ad infinitum._

This world is so horribly, _horribly_ wrong—

(Well, it's not as if it's ever been any better— both Here and There. Despair on all sides.)

Sasuke does not shudder when he finally releases his breath but it is a near thing and he has to manually force his body to breathe properly lest he chokes. Refocusing his attention he finds that the class is being dismissed for lunch. His stomach churns at the thought but it is a thing easily disregarded— easily pushed aside. He grabs his bento and— with sure steps that belie his turmoil— makes his way out of the classroom.

Before he truly comprehends it, he is settling at the base of a tree. The shadow it casts almost seems to have a weight of it's own and Sasuke can not help but relax the smallest bit if only because it provides the illusion of solitude.

He opens his bento and the ghost of a smile washes over his face. He takes up his chopsticks slowly, intent on savoring the moment— this very brief peace.

He doesn't get a chance to take a bite.

Sasuke looks up for the source of this new interruption— and he's not irritated because he has truly come to _expect_ interruptions— and his mask returns all over again.

(His _'dislike'_ comes rushing back.)

He does not profess to know the true workings of the Academy but he knows enough. The weak get thrown out like so much garbage— early on until all that's left are the ones that are _useful_ — and the strong grow stronger. And if you're too weak to handle 'a bit of roughhousing' then _surely_ you can't become a ninja, right? And if the weak are punished for being 'lesser' than the supposed strong, what does that say? It says, _"You're weak and I'll do as I please because you can't stop me." "I'll do as I please because you're garbage." "I'll do as I please and do to you as I please because you're an insect, because you're filth, and because you're not worth the dirt I step on."_

(It says, _"You are **nothing**."_)

And everyone will say that it can't be helped, that they'll grow out of it, or that they just _don't get enough attention_ or some other worthless rubbish. And that's _wrong._

Sasuke knows— knows that the kind of person who would harass somebody harmless, somebody they believe _unequal_ , with numbers resembling the beginnings of an alleyway beating will never change. He knows that scum who can only pester you when they have their friends at their backs are the type of people who will _always_ be scum.

Sasuke watches Ami and her goons standing over a crying Haruno Sakura and that torrential, black feeling slowly returns and for a moment— a _moment_ — he wants nothing more than to—

 _ **Crack**_

They're screaming.

The girls are screaming.

Screaming and sobbing over Watanabe Ami.

Ami's own voice is nothing but gurgles— viscous sucking and abnormal moisture.

Sasuke stares at his outstretched hand and vaguely— _vaguely_ — recalls the feeling of cold, sharp-edged stone clenched in his fist.

(He's long gone before anyone thinks to search for the culprit.)


	8. Startle

**Ingravesco— I become heavier; I become burdensome; I become worse; I worsen.**

 **Disclaimer:** I don't own Naruto.

* * *

 _Startle_

Hinata isn't sure of herself.

Ironically, this is one of the few things she is sure of— even if only peripherally and without the depth of thought that somebody older would possess— that every mistake she makes, every time she fails, every time she contemplates just _finally_ giving up, is brought about she lacks surety of self and the _will to keep moving_.

It's through no fault of her own because she truly _wishes_ to try— to be better and to be _enough_. But in the heat of the moment, when her arms are trembling and she looks into her tutor's dissatisfied eyes— her father oft wears the same expression— she simply _can't._ She tries her best to get up every time, but when she sees that look, whatever she has left leaves her. In the face of such disdain, why wouldn't she feel empty? Why wouldn't she feel hopeless? Why wouldn't she feel like a waste?

(Why wouldn't she feel like _nothing at all_.)

Hyūga Hinata is unsure of herself. Unsure of her strength, unsure of her character, unsure of her worth, unsure each step of her day and all the things in between.

Then she turns to Uchiha Sasuke and her stress grows by orders of magnitude.

Out of all others in their class, Hinata is the only one who's had a conversation with him— not because she actively tries to approach him, but because she is the _only one_ he talks to. Every day, he sits in the seat to her immediate left and offers her greetings. If he has questions he'll ask her in a quiet tone that, while lacking her obvious stutter, sounds every bit as downtrodden as she does. When the class departs for the day, he offers her farewells and assurances that they'll see each other 'next time' before taking his leave. It is a... _pleasant_ addition to her everyday life.

And _now_ he doesn't do even that much.

The problem is that she knows _why._ Hinata had been aware the very moment their routine had changed and she had _seen._ She could not _bear_ to look him in the eyes and when he'd tried to speak to her— sounding so much _smaller_ , but _of course,_ she ignored it— she'd shrunk in on herself, her gaze straight downward. It wasn't until Iruka-sensei had informed the class that Ami wouldn't be returning to the Academy— in a solemn tone that hinted at what Hinata feared was the _true_ reason she wouldn't return— and Hinata instinctively looked towards Sasuke, that she saw _him._

For a moment, however brief, she felt as if she were looking into a mirror. And _still_ , she could not bring herself to talk to him.

(Why is she such a _coward_?)

And now, two weeks later, she can see him steadily looking worse— and now, she can see that their conversations were helping him as much as they were her— so when the time comes for lunch she grabs the hem of his shirt in a jerky movement, trying her best not to draw attention, and when he doesn't move away she says the first thing to come to mind.

"I- I _saw_ ," she whispers.

Hinata flinches at the way he sags in his seat and when she meets his eyes— _empty_ — she focuses instead on his forehead and has to force herself to stay the path.

"I was p-practicing with my Byakugan"— she's almost _ashamed_ to admit to the fact— "and— w-well—"

As Hinata continues speaking, she watches as Sasuke slowly curls into himself and she fumbles for something to say— _anything_ to make this situation better. Even _now_ she still ruins everything and she stops, facing forwards.

"I'm sorry," she whispers, this time quieter than the last. "I won't— won't tell anyone."

Sasuke huffs at her side and she can see him in the corner of her eyes, staring forward. She flinches when he pats her hand where it still clings to his shirt.

"Not your fault," he mutters.

Neither looks at the other, sitting in silence until everybody has returned to the classroom.

.

.

.

The very next day, hidden in the shadows of the building during their lunch, Sasuke shows her his Sharingan. Nothing more than a brief flicker of red, but enough that she knows what it is.

And then he goes on to tell her that he hates his eyes.

He must see her confusion because he goes on to explain:

"The Sharingan isn't like the Byakugan," he starts. "The Byakugan is a tool and can be used to help as much as it can harm. The Sharingan is a weapon that's _all_ it is. There's nothing to like about the Sharingan."

There, she decides that Sasuke isn't anything like her, so easily spitting on the legacy of his clan.

(All the same, she wishes she had the same strength.)


	9. Interlude: Anime

**An interlude, in celebration of the year it's been since I began this fic.**

 **Disclaimer:** Don't own Naruto

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 _Interlude: Anime_

Daisy wakes up with a jolt and her head snaps to the side in an effort to see _something._ She quiets her breathing, listening and waiting for the disturbance to return.

( _How unlucky_ , she thinks. _Breaking into a police officer's home of all places._ )

She sits in silence a moment longer and when she hears the crash of something hitting the floor she stands in one smooth motion, moving towards her fireplace and taking the fire poker in hand.

Briefly, Daisy cringes and swipes a swathe of auburn bangs from her face as she makes her way out of her living room. She knows exactly where the sound came from and resents the fact because of _course_ , she left her gun upstairs and of _course_ that is also where the potential burglar is. Granted, Daisy's gun isn't in the bathroom.

It's a slow, silent, and tense walk to the stairs and upon reaching them she almost sighs aloud. She doesn't, of course, but the feeling remains.

She knows exactly where and where not to step in order to avoid the parts that creak but it still requires that she take her time— more time than she'd like to take at this point. Before she takes a step further she stops and listens. Within a moment, it's clear that whoever is in her home is _still_ faffing about in her bathroom. She wants to take a moment to think about why a burglar would spend such an obscene amount of time in one location, but logically, she's aware that it is probably _him_. And that would be just her luck, wouldn't it? Finally got that restraining ordered going and the bastard suddenly decides _now_ is the time to pursue his horrid perversion.

Vindictively, she entertains the idea of _accidentally_ breaking his legs before she phones the station.

It's a slow process, climbing the stairs, even as she takes them two at a time. As she moves, she quiets her breath— _softly_ , in through the nose— and arrives at the top, crouched low and eyes squinted in the darkness.

The hallway is short and she can just make out the almost-closed door of her bathroom. She approaches, quiet as ever and rises slowly to her whole six feet and two inches of height, grateful that the door is not shut tight because she's not a fan of breaking her own property. She nearly scoffs at the thought as she brings up a boot-clad that swiftly connects with the door. Immediately after, she swings the poker— careful not to strike with the point of it, lest she kills someone— and it is summarily caught.

" _Daisy_ ," a voice hisses.

She freezes in place— a half-second from giving the shadowed figure a swift boot to the face— before she reaches over and flicks on the light.

There's a second where she feels the smallest bit of guilt before she squashes it, scowls, and gives her friend a swift boot to the leg.

"What the _fuck_ is your problem?" she snarls. "You had me scared half to death!"

Which is not true— and the look on his face says he _also_ knows it's not true— but she's trying to make a point. She's prepared to give him another boot but notices the cotton bandages wrapped around his shin— right beneath the _ugliest_ pair of knee-length shorts she's ever seen— so she backs off. Except, _this_ _time_ when she sets her foot down, there's a distinct _squelch_.

Daisy looks down and her scowl deepens.

" _Bleeding._ You're _bleeding_ and you come tracking blood into my _house_? What were you _thinking_ , Hagalaz?"

A frown— small, and virtually undetectable if she hadn't known him as well as she does— crosses his face, even as he demures, "I was cleaning it," he says and before she can respond to _that_ he gives a sharp look. "And stop calling me that."

She scoffs before pushing his scally cap down over his eyes. "I'll call you whatever I want, 'Mister Breaking-And-Entering'."

The only reason she refers to him by such an odd nickname is that she _knows_ that he doesn't have the time nor the desire to bother finding out what it means.

He lifts a bottle of hydrogen peroxide and shakes it at her. "I have to finish cleaning." Then, as an afterthought, "You need to put on a shirt."

She almost hits him again for that comment alone but ultimately allows it and heads back downstairs, even if she doesn't appreciate being told what to do in her own home.

It's difficult, really, for Daisy to stay mad at him. Though he seems to be bothered by her antics, she knows he only acting that way because she enjoys a proper banter. He's _never_ angry at her and while she's rather certain that part of that is because she's probably the only person he talks to, it makes it nearly impossible to be properly mad at him without feeling like she's picking on a kid.

She's downstairs quickly enough and searches about for the t-shirt she had earlier decided it was too hot to wear, throwing it on before she flops onto the couch and the television. She's not even relaxed for a second before she hears a singular footstep directly behind and the fact she heard anything at all was likely for her sake.

"What are you watching?"

She gives him a glance over her shoulder— notes once again, the unpleasant pair of shorts— and turns away again. " _Naruto_."

He plops onto the couch— his ponytail swaying as he does— beside her and gives her a look. "Like the fishcake?"

Daisy scoffs at that. "No. Not like the fishcake." She nudges him with an elbow. "You wanna watch it, Hag?"

He nods and she sets about finding the first episode and immediately hits play once she does.

She's already seen the entirety of the series so she doesn't pay nearly as much attention as he does, opting instead to watch his reactions. His expression is ultimately unchanging, his mouth locked in a sort of almost frown but looking into his eyes, she can tell he's enthralled. Once, she heard that people who blink quickly and often are often constantly thinking, but she feels it's the exact opposite with him. He stares almost unblinkingly through thick lashes at the television, his eyes darting to and fro, trying to capture every little detail. She hears the little of huffs he lets out when anything moderately amusing happens and the twitch of an eyebrow when something doesn't make sense to him.

They finish the Wave Arc by sunrise she has his head in her lap by the end of it— with his measly five feet and three inches of height, it isn't really awkward.

She looks down at him. "So, how do you like it so far?"

He hums tiredly and she ignores the odd feeling of having him vibrate against her legs.

"I like it."

Daisy frowns at the short answer and continues. "And the characters?"

He rolls over so he's looking up at her. "I don't really like any of them."

Her expression becomes deadpan and she flicks his forehead. "You're a real downer, Hag."

"I'll bite you."

" _Sure_ you will."

And of course, he doesn't.

She looks up at the ceiling and suddenly, she is starkly aware that even though they're friends— she thinks— they don't actually hang out with each other, aside from him showing up at her house all the time.

This in mind, she looks back down and gives his cheek a pat.

"Well then. We'll just have to keep watching until we find someone you _do_ like."

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 **Hagalaz is a rune and that's all I'll say about that.**

 **And have joyous fucking Samhain, I guess.**


End file.
